


Golden Groove (The Needle Catching)

by Out_Of_Custody



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Basically PWP, Multi, Not much plot, OT3, Smut, Threesome - F/M/M, and it's not necessarily dirty talking either, can still be nice though, it's a little emotional, there's a lot of talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 13:16:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6425494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Out_Of_Custody/pseuds/Out_Of_Custody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She nods, but finds herself content when they lay back, enfold her and speak of it no longer – basking instead in the bubble of afterglow they’d erected like a tent around them. </p><p>Sun filters through the windows and paints the air golden. </p><p>--</p><p>(Small and quick with a confusing syntax, you're warned)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden Groove (The Needle Catching)

_Yes, yes, right the-_

“No!”

He stills and she pulls a moue, refrains from grunting and instead, with a sigh, continues her motions despite the fact that this angle is doing nothing for her – the first whisks of her impending orgasm vanishing into smoke.

He tries to still her, she shoots him a glare.

A hand from behind her lays itself on top of her shoulder, halting her. “No?”

She drops her head, hiding the _face_ she makes at them but she’s not certain she’s perfectly able to, considering their attentiveness (their eye for detail) – she lets go of the resentment with a sigh, _resets_ , and looks up.

“I was really close.” She tries and it sounds like a question – the hand on her shoulder solidifies into a second body, chest now firmly pressed into her back. “And then you changed the angle.” Okay so now she sounds petulant.

The hand on her shoulder drops to where she’s joined to the body in front of her, below her, and she can’t stop the frisson that runs down her spine.

“No?”

Her involuntary reaction obviously perplexes them and she wishes, oh god she _wishes_ , that she could just beam herself out of this situation _stat_. Instead she shrugs.

“It’s more like… catching a groove than getting the motor running.”

Metaphors help her gain distance; distance means less chance of embarrassment because if she thinks about the things that are possibly about to come to light she’s going to shut down and stay catatonic for the rest of the day. They get her though; they know her.

“But you’d have continued either way?”

She rolls her hips when he asks and he’s still hot and heard inside of her and it’s still a beautiful feeling, _perfect_ really and she hums. “Still can be nice.”

There’s a snort behind her and the exhalation warms her neck in a short burst. “Nice?” She can only imagine the incredulous look. “We ain’t aimin’ for nice, luv.”

She knows – she doesn’t answer.

“What did you mean with the groove and the motor?” he finally asks, not stopping her from moving now, it gets a little easier when the body at her back decides to explore her leisurely (it’s _highly enjoyable_ – more than _nice_ ).

She swallows, closes her eyes, _distances herself_ in a different way. “I have a hard time _getting_ myself into a state of wanting.” she finally choses to say. It’s not entirely what she meant, but close enough.

The hands from behind her find her breasts, roll them, please her. “So you mean to say that you just _happen_ to get hot?”

She grunts in disagreement, but the sound is interrupted by a catch in her breath when – _yes!_ There’s a shift in the angle. She barely opens her eyes, catching the gaze of the one underneath her, shakes her head.

“I mean… I don’t know what gets me running. Besides visual stimuli.”

He groans between her legs. “Visual?”

This angle is _marvellous_. “What’s that saying about women reading the shit out of porn?” she sasses, but the hands from behind her started sweeping again, a mouth hot on her neck and her shoulders – lazy, cocky, _hot_. “I read a lot. And I’m not impervious to your classic make out, given the subjects are to my tastes. Sometimes I’m picky, sometimes I’m not.”

She doesn’t speed up – rarely ever does; lazy and deep is her default setting and gets to her nine times out of ten, the beautiful drag against her skin inside and out. They grunt; one behind her, one in front of her and she smirks, knowing she’s given them a pretty good idea what she’s talking about.

Her body shifts a little, a soft noise escaping her when the needle _catches_ and she’s back in the groove and it’s so very nice. There might be a snort from both of them, but she’s ignoring it right now.

“So you’d just continue and deal with _nice but ultimately unsatisfied_?” he asks her, hands sitting on her thighs, drawing soothing circles. He’s a little breathless and she wonders if her current, selfish taking is doing it for him as well. It would be novel (but beautiful).

This is the point of the conversation that threatens to encroach in a very hindering manner on her current groove, but the first cautious tingles dance along her spine already and so she chooses, for a few moments, to not speak and instead focus on the pleasure that – this time – will not evade her.

They notice – they always do, it’s a really strange kind of hoodoo they possess – and let her set the pace, supply her where they can, a sweeping thumb just where they meet, _teeth_ on her neck, hands on her ribs, her stomach, her thighs, her backside, caressing wherever they can reach.

She’s warm and comfortable as she stills, savouring the thrum that zings through her, happily, lazily, with no care and all the time in the world – it’s so very, very, very lovely and she shuts her eyes against it, drags it out with the occasional roll of her hips, allows them to continue their petting before she opens her eyes, spent but still willing, and picks up her rhythm again – he catches her meaning (this will be for him).

“I’d rather at least one of the participants have a happy ending than for it to be a frustrating experience all around.”

He rolls his hips upwards, his hands clench on her hips and the hands on her breasts palm her more demonstratively, now they’re putting on a show for him and if the glaze in his eyes is anything to go by he likes it.

“Why not say anything? Work it out?”

She clenches purposefully, she can do that thing if she concentrates enough and he groans, responding with an intentional pulse of his own. “And what? Suffer through half-hearted attempts of oral stimulation, if even, for the sake of the male ego?”

Been there, done that – wasn’t all that fun.

“So even when you – uh – _continued_ … lost groove is lost?”

He’s stuttering, and not only in his words, one hand disappears from her breast, reappears beneath her, between them, rolls and fondles – it’s a bloody good feeling all things considered. She concentrates on him then, lets the question slide; pistons, finds _his_ groove and it doesn’t take him a second to respond to her silence physically and he halts her, ‘takes a (few) stab(s)’ and comes undone.

He’s ridiculously beautiful.

She turns, taking in her partner in crime, sees him flush and wanting, reaches – inquisitively. He doesn’t stop her.

“Groove lost.” She answers the question belatedly – he’s softening inside of her and in a weird way the sensation pleases her; she lifts from him; turns around properly. “Usually never to be found again.”

He sits up from where he’d been lying flat, crowds against her, going for the slick between her legs and gathering it up – _feeding it to her_. Putting on a show for their third.

 _Visual_ \--she thinks with a slight smirk when his breath hitches, zeroes in on her mouth.

“I thought women were capable of multiple orgasms?” he challenges throatily, tries to regain ground – she knows the technique, knows what he’s trying to do. Knows because she’s observed herself often enough to recognize the manoeuvre.

She leans forward, catches his mouth, her – _their_ – taste still lingering on her tongue, he pulls her in, seats her on his thighs, grabs a handful of her hair.

“I think there’s a bunch of people who can have them.” She answers when her mouth detaches from his. “But since I’ve never had them and usually have to fight for _one_ I’ll go with ‘myth’.”

Hands from behind her turn her head, lips catch and the hands that aren’t busy holding her safely against the body behind her sweep over her, dip into her, collect from the remaining liquids. She barely doubts he’s having a direct taste but she doesn’t look.

His hips jerk in her hands, jolt suddenly and almost dislodge her if his hands wouldn’t have come down around her thighs, ground her back to him, _grind her against him_. He doesn’t mind the sloppiness. Seems rather enthused by it.

But while she waits for the breach, it never comes.  
He’s very content just _rocking_.

So very content that he spills barely a minute later, paints her a milky white and catches her mouth in a smooth kiss that has her smile.

“We gotta work on that then.” He cautiously proposes as he swipes the pearly liquid from her skin, licks it from the tips of his fingers.

“If you want that.” He mutters against her lips.

She nods, but finds herself content when they lay back, enfold her and speak of it no longer – basking instead in the bubble of afterglow they’d erected like a tent around them.

Sun filters through the windows and paints the air golden.

**Author's Note:**

> First dabble in OT3, I'm quite content and thought I'd share  
> You could probably read this with whatever OT3 you have in mind, but I thought this would fit the shoe :)


End file.
